[pic http://i.imgur.com/QtxfLvk.jpg?3] [h3 A Dusty Discovery.] I blew the dust from the old cassette player. Why the hell did someone decide to use a cassette? I was not even sure this old cassette player would even still work. I mashed down the mechanical play button with a somewhat satisfying click. The player screeched and spat like an agitated feline. Slowly you begin to make out a woman's voice below the static.
[+blue " . . . seething, gyrating world simmers just beneath the surface. I can't believe I am saying this out loud, but this bloody world has made me question everything, everyone."] The woman on the tape sounded older and weary, like she had carried a heavy burden for a long time. Her voice was familiar, but I could just not place it.
[+blue "However . . . not one of hope or one . . .No, this is one of those old German lessons; the dark kind where the children get eaten. Please, I beg whoever is listening to take this cautionary . . . I might not have long."] The tape kept breaking up, probably due to the dated tape or player. Suddenly I place the voice. [i What . . . the . . . fuck?]
[+blue "The plan goes down tomorrow. I swear to God, if I die, I am taking as many of these monsters with me as I can."] The sentence ended with the resounding thump of glass against hard wood. [+blue "Anyways, I want to leave something in case tomorrow goes wrong. It all started with those two sick murders . . ."]
[h3 Homicide Case Number 17-89] [b Vic 1 Dossier:] [b Name/Alias:] "Yetti" [b Height:] 5'11'' [b Age:] Unknown, est. mid 30s [b Weight:] 182 lbs [b Detective Notes:] We have not been able to identify the male victim yet, although he went by the alias "Yetti." He has been homeless for 2y9m and had no means of identification on him at scene. He died at around the same time as vic 2. He was found four days ago.
The cause of death is likely the deep lacerations to his wrists, inner thighs, and neck. He was found hung upside down in a warehouse on Dock 7. The floor below the body was clean so the killer likely stored and took the blood in some manner. The warehouse manager was the first to find him the following morning. We will know more after the autopsy.
[b Vic 2 Dossier:] [b Name/Alias:] Sarah M. Lockheart [b Height:] 5'7'' [b Age:] 22 [b Weight:] 115 Lbs [b Detective Notes:] The second victim is a local college student who had been attending Arizona State University. She was an average B+ student and a member of the sorority Phi Mu. She was set to graduate within the year. She was found 3 days ago.
Vic 2 was found in a similar manner as Vic 2. She was found hung upside down off one of the more busy streets of L.A. Deep lacerations at the neck, wrist, and thighs are the probable cause of death.
[h3 My Character.] [left [pic http://i.imgur.com/E4lMWx3.jpg?2]] [b Case Notes:] [b Julia Lockheart.] First to identify Vic 2's body, Julia Lockheart is . . . er rather was a sister. She had lived a normal childhood, rebellion and all. After going to college, she pulled away from her family. Some of the family members blame it on drugs, others blame it on the friends she keeps. Either way, Julia never graduated from college. Instead, she works nights as a cyber-security technician.
[i A whitehat for short.]
Julia keeps odd, probably drug-fueled hours. Still, she seems to be very invested in this case and has called multiple times for information. She does not have an alibi for the night of her sister's of Vic 1's murder. Still, I have written her off as a suspect . . .
[h3 Setting] [b Los Angeles] God, now that I looked back on it, the city of lost angels was the perfect place to find him and his club. He just sort of screamed fallen angel. However, if the last couple of weeks has taught me anything, its that Christianity is a farce. It got so many things wrong.
Los Angeles is a city built on separated diversity. Chinatown, the Hispanic barrio, the Manhattan uptown, or the Irish docks are all examples of this separated diversity. There are few people who tread between these geographic areas. The police force happens to be one of them.
The Lounge itself sits on the edge of the Irish docks, but it calls only one person master. There are things in this city that go bump-in-the-night, things you can't even imagine. I know I sound like a mad-man, but nothing is more insane than reality. [b The Orchid Lounge] [left [pic http://i.imgur.com/u2al7nj.jpg?2]] Welcome to the one and only [b [i Orchid Lounge.]] This is the place of the damned; the forgotten; the lost. The only question left is: [i which one are you, lovely?] I sure hope you're lost. They always taste the best . . .
Here at the Orchid, you can find anything you want. Most of the time though, you get things you didn't even know you wanted. There are rooms in the back if you are in need of a little privacy. [right [pic http://i.imgur.com/hOhtl4X.jpg?2]]
Here is the description: [i The building itself was one of the old brick warehouses, abandoned at the turn of the 19th century. It took up most of this block. Huge windows hung in an ordered line beneath the vaulted roof. The panes themselves were dirtied beyond belief and yellowed with age. Some had been broken and never replaced. Light pulsed out of these neglected, broken panes with a rhythmic beating. A large metal sign hung over the door. The club’s name, The Orchid Lounge, was cut into the sheet of metal by some sort of blow torch: the edges of the name had long, black scorch marks.]
[h3 Your Character.] I am looking for a character who is powerful, cunning, and old. [i Think something similar to Eric from true blood or something.] For all intents and purposes, he is the leader of the North American underfae, at least those that are sentient enough to understand true power when they see it. I'm giving you free reign over their powers or even what type of creature they are.
I also want your character to be old. There should be flashbacks involved of times long since past. Your character should also have a slew of skills and hobbies they have picked up over the centuries. [i Painting, writing, musical talent. Whatever you want.] Your character should have experienced much of what this world has to offer. Since your character is so old, I also want your character to know and understand loss.
[h3 The Council.] Underfae need to be controlled.This simple rule has keep the underfae alive for as long as the oldest fae could remember. Established sometime around the 1200s, The Council is a collection of the most powerful fae from around the world, each fae choosing a territory to represent. The Council convenes once every half-century or so. If a problem arises out of that territory, it is up to the ruling Council member to deal with it in any way they see fit, so long as the issue is resolved.
Roleplay Reply. Do not chat here. (50 character limit.)
“Sarah….” The Watcher hisses low under his breath, letting her name slide over his tongue like fine wine. Slow black and red images of the dark-haired woman dance in his mind. Sarah’s swaying figure and innocent grin. He could see the similarities between the sisters now. Somewhere below them the bass is turned back on. The low thumping momentarily distracting him and reminding him of the night Sarah went missing.
“Lockhart was her last name, wasn’t it?” He questions, what he assumed to be, the older sister. Whether her last name was Lockhart or not: he did not care. What he truly cared about was how the woman knew about him. The deeper he dived into the situation the more questions arose. The Watcher had not ordered the victims killed, nor did he immediately know who killed them. The murderer tortured the victims and then hung them to be found. These killings were meant to draw attention to the club. Each victim had been to the club a night or the night they disappeared.
“I am dreadfully sorry Julia.” He murmurs softly. Seductively. “I do not know who killed your sister. I wish I did. She was too…” He pauses searching for the right words. “Noticeable.” The Watcher’s natural pull invites Julia to stay with him. The purr in his voice offers warmth and devotion. His cold eyes offer a tombstone. Certain death.
Standing gracefully and boldly turning his back on her, he strides toward an end table. Soundlessly he opens the drawer and pulls thin bottle of vodka, a cheap brand that is sold in most gas stations. Without a word, he returns to his place on the white couch. Unscrewing the cap to the bottle, he lets the burning smell fill his nose. He gestures toward Julia. “Would you like a drink?”
He waits patiently for her answer, promising that it is not poisoned. His dark eyes flash gold like fire consuming a wrinkled piece of paper. His gaze threatens to hypnotize her into taking the bottle. The pair sitting at her sides wait patiently for her answer too. They have seen this trick hundreds of times. The woman runs a manicured hand through her pale blonde hair, letting the short tresses fall around her face. Her shadowed eyes flick around the room not staying interested in one thing for too long. The man on the other side of her picks dirt and grime from under his chewed nails. The short edges sharp from his teeth. His broad chest moving slightly under his black button up shirt. Every so often he glances up and around the room, his eyes repeatedly traveling to the front entrance of the bar. People with hunched shoulders and stressed eyes lope through the doors downstairs. Each one walks to the bar and orders a drink. The young bartender always makes short work of their order even through he’s still shaken from disposing of the dismantled handgun. The barroom is a world away with average people with average problems. Average people bumping and grinding to an average club song. All innocent in their not-knowing.
“I have other treats.” The Watcher promises swaying the liquid in the bottle slowly. “If you would prefer something different.”
A roaring emotional dragon rose up from my stomach and occupied my chest. It was made of anger and spite, sadness and rage. The dragon could not longer be caged. I jerked forward, but my advance was stopped by the woman to the left of me. Her hand was like iron on my shoulder. She didn't even move from her nonchalant position. The women across from our couch were none too pleased with my angered interruption of their slumber. The tan one, the one in front, raised a pleasantly exhausted eye towards me, her stare was like frosted daggers. She had been decently pleased, before being interrupted by my angry outburst.
[+blue "Do you even remember her name? You left her body in the alley like trash!"] Crime scene photos and Sarah's cold corpse on the medical slab flickered through my mind. She was so small, so frail.
My short phone call with my parents played again, a genuine form of torture. [i [+blue "Mom! Mom! Stop. Sarah . . .] There was silence from the other line, but it was not a silence one might find in absence or a silence one might find in contentment. No, this silence was the one you found before a great storm. Mom knew. She knew before I even told her. I never called and if I ever did, it was never for a good reason.]
[+blue "Do you even have any idea what its like to lose a sister?"] I could feel hot tears burning down my cheeks now, but I didn't care. [i I was way beyond the point of caring.] What did this man even know of my suffering? I knew I wanted this man before me punished and, eventually, dead. The suspect credit card, the one the police had found and I had subsequently hacked, had been used here and he either had the card or knew who did.
I could not explain how I knew, but this man in a white shirt was a killer. Maybe it was a the predatory air around him or that wolfish grin, like a chestier grin appearing from the darkness. Either way, I could feel that this man had taken a life or two, even the two bodyguards seemed to emanate violence.
[h2 [b [center A Hunter and His Prey]]] [i Oh shit . . .] I suddenly realized how deep I had waded. I could feel the very faintest riptide gently tugging at my knees and ankles, threatening to pull me under. It hit me like a freight train. I was in serious danger. I had come here alone, with only one plan and that murderous plan was now sitting on the bar in the club below. No one knew I was here and the man before me had almost certainly ended someone's life before.
[i I had to get out of here.]
Just like an animal trapped in a cage, waiting for the hunter to come, I knew there was something bad coming. I really, really did not want to be here when it arrived.
[i It was probably much too late to politely ask to leave.]
At first, he watched them intently. They were a tangle of arms and legs, pale and tan. Two naked bodies writhing together like snakes twisted in a mating ball. Each one would let out the smallest of moans followed by a guttural grunt. He watched them press against each other, his tongue sliding sickly across his tapered fangs leaving a trail of milk-white venom. One of the girls, the taller dark one, twisted in ecstasy. Slowly they still, their breath escaping them in heavy puffs. Remaining close and tangled together the girls relaxed and enjoyed the ebb of their high. Light blond tresses fell over the smaller one’s shoulders. The small girl hid in the larger one, each chest heaving and gasping for breath. Rolling slightly, the dark girl curled into the warmth the other provided. The shameful deed had been done and in front of the most voluptuous stranger the pair will ever meet. Dopy, the small blond peeks up over the breasts of the other girl at him. Her last thought was how sinfully attractive The Watcher is.
The Watcher turns his head toward the sound of an opening door. From his glass perch, he peers out over everything happening below. A dark pale woman entered, a purse slung low over her shoulder. Dully the bass thumped in his ears, preventing him from hearing what was said. The woman lets her eyes fall on the looming figure in the glass room. She stares at him like she heard him say her name. Knowing he smirked down at her. Whispers race up his spine causing gooseflesh to prickle his thick forearms and the nape of his neck. Something in her expression excited a primal part of him, a long-forgotten part that had grown disinterested and bored. Licking his lips, he could taste her, the lava hot hate pumping through her veins and darkening her black eyes. Sentinels converged on her, each grasping an arm and preventing her from reaching for whatever was in her purse. One of his black eyebrows arch as she keeps her gaze locked with him. Artistically he lifts his right hand and points then turns his wrist to gesture. The woman wearing a clarion shirt turns her chin up toward The Watcher. Fluidly he rises and crosses the modern white room. Unlike the rest of the bar, his perch is clean and bright. Three crisp white couches face each other, forming a three-sided square. The fourth side of the square being the glass wall that separates The Watcher from his subjects. The rest of the perch is geometric with an obsession of being mirrored opposites. Two silver-coal nightstands lean on opposite sides of the room holding secrets such as a brick of cocaine and an antique revolver. The kitten-plush carpet rises around his Gucci loafers. The ceiling is a magician’s illusion of mirrors. The girls laid naked and napping on the farthest left couch.
In a few lengthy strides, he reaches the coal-black door to the room and slides a harsh iron lock to the right with a snap. He then grasps the black knob of the door and twists the lock there, a tiny click. Ghastly light floods the black corridor leading up to The Watcher’s perch. Two inky creatures shake their heads annoyed at the sudden blinding light. Crossing the threshold of silver into the darkness, the Watcher feels a part of him settle. As a natural creature of the night, sitting in light for too long makes his skin itch and crawl like thousands of red aunts in his veins. The thick furred creatures shift their weight at the sight of the man that had captured them. Each standing just below his shoulder with their back hunched. Behind their thick meaty lips, of their wolf-snout, are serrated teeth made for shredding. Resting at the start of their ribs their six fingered hands end in kitchen-knife claws. Even bipedal, they still shuffled like animals. Shaking their heads again at the light, they rattle their chains and dip their heads. Careful not to move too fast and upset them The Watcher pulls the door shut behind him enveloping them in tar-thick blackness. The blackness didn’t hinder any of them, in fact it made them stronger.
The harsh drumming music quiets and then stops as he descends the rusty metal stairs with grace. Tall impenetrable double doors yield to him, he enters the bar room for the second time that night. He pauses for a moment to smooth the collar of his white shirt and to pull at the edges of his rolled sleeves. The white button up shirt was open at his throat, showing black curly hair decorating his defined chest. Under his tan skin black blood floods his veins, moving in sputters with every heartbeat. He quickly runs his large hands over his slicked-back ebony hair. His navy-blue jeans pick up dirt and dust from the floor as he struts toward her. The woman’s glassy colorless eyes clash with his dark-blood-rimmed orbs. The bite of steel in his nose alerts him to the present in her purse. His lips pull into an amused smile as his straight nose flares. Exhaustion, metal, oil, and cheap soap rolled off her in waves, clogging his senses and distracting him. All together the bar room smelled like human sweat and sin, smoke and urine. Even the alcohol under the bar burned his nose, the back of his tongue, and throat.
“What seems to be the problem?” he purrs seductively, standing straight and spreading his hands away from his body like a preacher starting a sermon. The floor teems with nervous energy. The woman’s features were etched in rage and her black curls fell around her face in wild disarray. To himself The Watcher thought her cheeks were too hollow and her lips too red. Her clothes clung to her weakly, any extra fabric limply swaying as she struggled against his guards. The fire in her eyes blamed him, he is her devil and she wished to exorcise him.
He’d seen a look like hers once before. The look belonged to a soldier’s wife from a time long, long ago. The soldier’s wife curled up in the ash and blood at his feet while he wore silver and gold armor. Her red hair had blended with her small farm burning behind her. The shadows created by the flames made her round childish face longer, sharper. The tears streaming down her cheeks washed away any purity she had. That fateful night he’d reached down and grabbed her by the throat, his black gloved hand preventing his grave-cold skin from touching her. The Watcher could remember vividly her gurgling for air, kicking uselessly, and slapping his armored forearm as she struggled against his inhuman strength. A sick smile pulled at his lips as his free hand removed his helm, revealing his face to her was the last dignity he offered her before snapping her fragile spine like a dry twig. With the last of her strength, breath, and life she clawed fleetingly at his eyes. He’d enjoyed watching her own piss drip off the toe of her limp black boot and staining her white dress. The Watcher abandoned the young wife there, in the walk-way of her home. Her anus leaked shit as he turned decisively away from her, the last scanting breaking in half and crumbling to the flames devouring what was her kitchen. His diseased pleasures were starting to germinate. Over time the pleasure he took from human suffering would deepen, stemming into a blood-tipped Iris.
“What have you brought me?” He playfully mocks her. Approaching her he stops a foot away. Brazenly he reaches a hand down into her purse, pulling the cold oiled firearm from its concealed place. Methodically he turns the handgun over and over, shifting it from one hand to the other before pressing the lever on the side, releasing the magazine. He catches the falling magazine in his other hand and then takes a few steps toward the bar. Fearfully the bartender fleas from him, bumping into the glass shelves behind him before clumsily scrambling to the side. Mindful of everyone’s nerves, The Watcher lays the magazine down on the polished cedar bar carefully. The thin plastic covering the wood makes a small pop as the magazine is laid down. Pointing the gun down toward the floor he cocks it and checks the cylinder for any bullets. Pleased with his muscle-memory remembering how to handle a gun, he puts it down on the bar, once sure it is harmless.
“Now, that we’re done playing with toys shall we go upstairs and talk like adults?” He criticizes her. Taking a step back, he gestures at the large blue-grey doors he’d emerged from with a wide sweeping hand. Gallantly he places his other hand across his stomach and bows. From his flamboyant position, he chances a peek up at her, narrowing his eyes and winking his right eye. Bright red rage flashed on the woman’s face. Yawning hunger grabbles at his mind. A wild animal entombed within him throws itself at the firm walls he’d placed around it. It would take over a thousand years of practice for him to control the hunger this woman freed within him. The fire in her eyes flamed his inner beast. Straightening, he turns and makes his way back toward the doors leaving the dismantled handgun on the bar. With his back turned to her and his figure retreating the way it came, he could focus on the raving beast within him. Millions of questions flock like stirred seagulls, cawing their shrill call and circling maddeningly. Politely he holds open the door for her and his sentries dragging her across the barroom floor. The woman fought his guards with each step, her rage fueling her. He doubted she was afraid to go with him, part of her might be, but he thought any fear she had for him would be long buried until later in her motel room; if she made it out alive.
Shoving her forward onto the first step of the stairs the tattooed woman loses her grip. Thoughtlessly the dark-haired woman begins clawing at the man’s bare hand, ripping at his knuckles and meaty fingers. Each pair let out a surprised gasp before quickly regaining control of her. The woman sentry wrangles the hostage’s arm, the man glances down at his bleeding hand and wrist; not letting the burning itching scratches distract him long. The woman sentry lets her pink lips pull into a mischievous smile as she notices his discomfort and The Watcher’s accusing eyes. If the man did not know any better he would have thought his partner had let the hostage go on purpose. Thin lines of blood bead on his skin, threatening to dribble onto the floor. The Watcher’s guards help the woman up the stairs, never straying two or three steps behind him. The two inky creatures standing guard to his perch were gone, carefully hidden in the belly of the warehouse-bar. Courteously he opens the door for them, this time letting the struggling trio stumble into the room. Closing and locking the door behind them, The Watcher ties their fate together.
Comfortably he settles himself on the middle couch, favoring the left spot to prop his head up with his left hand. The two girls remained where he had left them, embracing on the left couch. Softly the pale small girl snored and the dark larger girl wheezed in her sleep. Sitting opposite the pair and to the right of the middle couch the two women and one man watch him. Sulking in the middle, the hostage stared at her nails, the man with the bleeding hand sat to her right. The tattooed woman, to the left of the hostage, crossed her legs and leaned nonchalantly on her left hand, mimicking her god-king.
I carefully cradled the address in my lap as the taxi moved through darkened streets. [i I had done it. I had finally found the bastard . . .] Finding the account had been easy when compared to breaking into it. The last transaction on the account's debit card was only an hour ago at a nightclub called [i The Orchid Lounge.] In all my dealings with this city at night, I had never heard of the club, but after a quick google search, it turned up to be by the docks. I tried to keep my purse from digging into my shoulder, but it was no use. The thing weighted so much now. I settled with a slight squirm and the knowledge that the weight was worth it.
[i When was the last time I slept? Yesterday, Two days ago?] I couldn't remember, but I could feel the tendrils of sleep pulling down my eyes and cheeks. My face felt elongated and I knew there were dark circles around my eyes. My black hair was thick and frizzled, more so than usual. My hands shook from a combination of anger, rage, and sadness. I felt strung out and probably looked it too.
I could feel the taxi start to slow. I paid the man and watched the automobile pull away. There was no going back now. I took in the building that loomed before me. The building looked like one of those old turn of the century factories. The brick face was weathered and dirty. The windows that encircled the building near the roof fared no better. Many were yellowed from age and neglect. Some panes were broken or shattered. Light pulsated out from these broken, neglected panes with a rhythmic beating. The sign for the nightclub was unique. [i Orchid Lounge] was cut from some thick looking metal. Large black burns streaked across the sign from the letters. It looked like someone had cut the letters out with a hand-torch or something. Beneath the sign stood an open loading dock with a ramp up to it. I could make out the rhythmic music that flow from it, but I did not know the song.
I pulled my purse close and tried to fight against a shiver. My black jeans and loose fitting top did not do much against the cool air coming off the bay. I was regretting not bringing a jacket. Being this close to the bay gave a fishy, salty undertone to the air. [+blue "Alright."] I assured myself under my breath. This was it. My feet walked the remaining distance between me and the pulsating music. It was still somewhat early in the night so there wasn't a line.
The inside of the club felt completely different from its gruff, turn of the century exterior. A large and heavy looking bar dominated a large portion of the space. The rest was consumed by a nearly empty dance floor and vacant stage. There were a few lost souls at the bar, silently drowning whatever sorrows plagued them. Over looking this domain was an office, one full length window gave a snap-shot of the room above. The room was shockingly white and, excluding the white leather couch, the room looked almost clinically cold.
In the middle of the couch sat a man. From this angle, I could not make much out, but he sat with attractive confidence. His back was straight and his head was held high. The entire visage gave me the feeling that he was a king overlooking his domain.
[i Now, how the hell am I going to find him?] I approached the bar and leaned against a stool. I placed my purse on the stool next to me, finally glad to have its heavy weight no longer digging into my shoulder. I looked up and down the heavy wood bar, stopping momentarily at each of the lost soul's faces. Most were buried in their early-night drinks, but one . . .
[i One smiled at me.] [i The face's teeth grew to a snide, almost snickering glee,] [i and I knew.] [i He knew too . . .]
[h3 A Maddening Smile.] I smiled back. A cold-burning anger arose from somewhere primal. There was no thought or reason to this emotion, just the most simple and clean of emotions: absolute and unforgiving rage. I could feel the bar-tender talking to me, his voice barely a whisper beneath deafening white noise.
I stood from the bar stool, a smile still splitting my lips. Each step I took towards him fell and battered against the white noise burning a path through my brain. He should have known, just from my maddening smile. He should have run, he should have begged. He should have screamed.
[i But he just smiled.] [i Recognition burning in his eyes.]
I unzipped my purse and slowly crept a hand over the heavy steel. The cold metal felt even colder against my sweating palm. I started to pull my hand from my purse, the cold metal ready to breath fire, when a hand grabbed my wrist. The hand kept me from pulling the metal from my purse. Its grip was like iron manacles clasped around my wrist.
[i No!] [i I found him.] [i No!]
I jerked against the grip before turning my rage against the owner of the hand. [i What?!] The man from the window stood facing me and a little to the right, one hand reached across me to stop me from pulling the firearm. A beautiful woman stood in front of me, blocking my path from [i him]. The man's steel grey suit and black tie perfectly matched the woman's nearly sheer shirt. I could make out a myriad of black tattoos under her shirt.